The Little White Church

Rev. Eric W. Pace

Ours is just a tiny roadside church

Built of spruce, some pine and knotty birch

It’s rather old, with signs of wear

From people who came to worship here

Its pews are warped and sag a bit

Be mindful where and how you sit

The floor is rough with gaping seams

Its roof held high by hand-hewn beams

The bell calls out on Sunday morn

Inviting folks to be reborn

Way up high the pulpit stands

Proclaiming God with outstretched hands

Ancestral voices hushed and soft

Wafted down from rear-placed loft

Headstones worn and faded over time

Tell of loved ones, yours and mine

God calls out to you and me

Be faithful keepers of the key

This congregation is the body of my Son

His saving work is not quite done

Be careful stewards of this tiny church

Built with spruce, some pine and birch

I know it’s old with signs of wear

But God will come and meet you here